


keep my things (they've come to take me home)

by evewithanapple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had no reason to stay and no reason to leave, and remained suspended between the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep my things (they've come to take me home)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first thing's first: the timeline of this fic is ALL KINDS OF FUCKED UP and for that I apologize. The fic is based on a sort of nebulous mix of book and musical canon, and I could not figure out how much time canonically passed between the Plumet robbery and the beginning of the rebellion, so I fudged it a bit so that the characters had enough time to spend together and develop their relationship.
> 
> Second: a million thanks to everyone who cheered me on as what was meant to be a little thousand-word fic ballooned into a 10k monstrosity. You are all angels and I love you. 
> 
> Title from the Peter Gabriel song "Solsbury Hill"

She could have run from Rue Plumet when her father absconded. Should have; but could and should are so often fulfilled, and the truth was, she was terribly tired. Her head ached. She had not eaten all day. No one would miss her if she remained on the street, lying there in front of the gates. It was cold out, even in the mild June weather, and it was beginning to rain. She had no reason to stay and no reason to leave, and remained suspended between the two, holding her knees against her chest, resting her head against the black bars of the gate.

What went through her mind in those moments? Could she have known, even then, that her life was about to change? Doubtful; she was, as we have said, tired and hungry and cold, and the thoughts of those who suffer thus rarely carry much meaning. Poetic poverty is a fancy of the bourgeois, and she was no longer a bourgeois. She remembered- oh, she did remember!- dressing in fine clothes and sleeping in a warm bed the way Marius's Cosette did. No longer. She had descended down the steps of poverty, fallen, and slid to the bottom, that Hell we have created on earth, where there is no rest and no sucor. None of this went through her mind, though, as she sat there. She was thinking instead of the Lark she had known in her youth, the little bird who did not sing, and how she sang now for the prettiest bird of all. Surely she did not know what she had won, and yet Eponine felt the sting all the keener for the knowledge of it: what Cosette had won, what she had lost, and the disappearing sight of the world above even as the rain fell on her head.

She may have been sitting there for an hour or a minute; who knows? But her next awareness was of a sudden indrawn breath above her, followed by the rustling of branches, and then a gentle hand laid on her shoulder. "Mademoiselle, are you unwell?"

Eponine jerked away from the soothing touch and looked up. She did not recognize the voice, for it shared nothing with the croaking child she had known, and yet there she was- Cosette, the Lark, standing above her and looking down with concern in her eyes. Perhaps I'm dying, Eponine thought; perhaps an angel has come to take me to heaven. Perhaps it had only been a dream.

She certainly looked the part of an angel: clad in a flowing white nightrobe, her silken blonde hair loose, and smelling of roses and chamomile. Eponine wore rags and had dark hair and smelled of the street. That, perhaps, proved that she was not dying; surely in death the dirt of the earth would be washed away? But she felt and looked the same as ever.

Cosette was still fluttering over her anxiously, patting her hair and encouraging her to stand. "Mademoiselle, you can't stay here- the night is cold, and there are thieves abroad. Papa!" She addressed the last back towards the doors. "Papa, there is someone here who needs our help." She turned back to Eponine. "You must come inside and warm yourself. You may make your own way in the morning, if you wish, but you are in need of shelter."

Eponine was dumbfounded, though she knew she should not be. She knew Cosette and the old man were charitable- had that not been their business in the city that afternoon? But she had not expected to be found so late, or for the other girl to invite her into the house. Was this how they treated all beggars in need? It was a miracle they had not yet been murdered in their beds.

There was a sound of footsteps, far heavier than Cosette's, and an old man appeared in the doorway. This must the man who had taken her away, those long years ago. Eponine had never seen him, save a brief glance at his back in the marketplace, and she wondered what sort of man it was who had taken an orphan with no money in the world under his protection. A kind one, she supposed, to have raised a charitable child. Charity? Her head hurt.

"Cosette," he said, more sharply than she had expected. "We must leave soon."

"She needs shelter, Papa," Cosette insisted. Leave? Where were they going? Marius would be so sad. "We can't leave her out on the street. There are thieves about."

"The thieves are gone," Eponine mumbled, and they both looked at her as if they'd forgotten she was there. "They ran away."

The man bent down to look her in the eyes. His gaze was kind, but there was fierceness behind it. A wild animal protecting their young. Would he swallow her whole? "Child, did you see the thieves? Did they harm you?"

"Not a'tall," she mumbled, again. Her mouth felt full of cotton. "They won't come back. Scared 'em off."

"You're hurt," Cosette said gently, brushing a hand against her temple. Sure enough, it was scraped from her father's slap. She hadn't noticed. "You must be dazed."

"I'm not," she said. She stood up, and promptly fell over. Cosette bent over her, fussing in a voice too low to hear, but couldn't seem to lift her. The old man bent as well, and lifted her into his arms as easily as he might a doll. "Prepare a bath for her," he said over his shoulder to Cosette. "She needs to be warmed."

Eponine's head was dangling upside-down, but she saw Cosette nod. "I will, Papa."

 

* * *

 

Mme Touissant was already gone for the night, so Cosette pulled out the tub and heated water over the fireplace herself. Papa had deposited the girl, Eponine- so Marius had called her- on her bed after bringing her in, and she rested there, apparently asleep- or unconscious- save for the occasional quiet moan.

Cosette pushed her sleeves up to her elbows briskly, and tested the water with a finger. It was warm enough, but not so warm as to scald. She and her father had learned that lesson the hard way when she was young and he had tried to place her in a bath before checking the water first. Satisfied, she bustled over to the bed and pulled gently on Eponine’s hand. ”Your bath is ready. Are you able to stand?”

The other girl’s response was another moan, but with Cosette’s encouragement, she rose to her feet and stumbled over to the tub. Cosette gently helped her untie the back of her dress. It slid to the floor in a heap, and Cosette blushed hotly when she realized that Eponine had worn no petticoat under it.  _She must have nearly frozen_ she thought, helping Eponine lower herself into the bath. She remembered times spent with only a thin layer of clothing between her and the elements. She also remembered another Eponine in those days, wrapped warmly in fancy dresses and bonnets. Whatever had become of her?

The other girl let out a tiny huff of breath as she slid into the water, sending rippled across the surface of the tub. Cosette knelt down next to her and took up a washcloth, gently wiping away the fine layer of dirt on her shoulders and arms.  Eponine’s head lolled back against the edge of the tub, eyelids hanging half-open, watching Cosette with an aimless sort of curiosity. Cosette blushed.

She tried not to look at the other girl in this intimate moment, but she had to see where she was washing, and it couldn’t be helped. She did lower her eyes from Eponine’s, though, feeling that the other girl would be made uncomfortable by her stare. She had never seen another woman unclothed before, though she had examined herself in the mirror many times, watching her body unfurl and grow day by day. There was an unaccountable excitement to it, and she had longed to compare herself to another and see how she measured up. With that in mind, she sat back on her heels as she washed and looked through her lowered eyelashes at Eponine. She was like her in many ways- full-breasted (though she blushed more hotly even thinking it), round-faced, and short of stature. But in as many ways, she was different. Even with the dirt washed away, her skin was much darker than Cosette’s, as were her eyes and hair. Her shoulders were sloped, and hollows stood out under her shoulders.  Her breasts were round, like Cosette’s, but her nipples- Cosette had to look away for a moment, embarrassed as the thought crossed her mind- were dark. Dark too was the hair that lay on her legs, and the dark thatch that lay at the apex of her legs. Cosette thought of her own appearance, and blushed yet again, hoping that Eponine did not guess her thoughts from the look on her face.  The other girl was more alert now, and Cosette handed the washcloth to her to allow her to clean herself, turning away to fetch a towel from the chest of drawers.

“Have you a mother and father?” Cosette asked as she rummaged in the drawers. “Surely they must be worried, if you are out so late.” She turned around, towel in hand, and saw Eponine standing in the tub, water streaming down her nakedness, apparently unashamed. The other girl shook her head. “They ain’t worried.” The expression on her face was unreadable, and Cosette wondered if she felt any grief, or if it was a simple fact to her. She wrapped the towel around Eponine’s shoulders and took her hand to help her from the bath. “No matter. We will care for you now.”

Eponine gave a laugh, a sound more suited to a frightened dog than a girl. “You’re kind; you’re very kind! It’s the kindest who suffer the most, you know. They haven’t the brains to know better. It’s best if you bite first- they never know what hit ‘em. But they all go down in the end.”

Cosette listened to her ramble quietly, rubbing the droplets of water away and pulling a spare nightgown over her head. The girl must be delirious. She had seen others like her, so tired and so hungry that they no longer held control over their tongue. She had been like this girl, once, though she had never spoken as freely. Other than the torrent of words coming from her mouth, Eponine was curiously blank; she accepted the nightgown without a word and lay back on the bed with a gentle push.  Cosette pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, and still Eponine said nothing. She was staring up at the canopy as though she could not believe what she saw.

“Rest,” Cosette said, gentling her forehead. “I will fetch you breakfast in the morning.” Most likely Toussaint would be surprised to return and find a strange girl in Cosette’s bed, but no matter. She had served stranger whims, usually Papa’s, and had long since accepted her employers’ eccentricities. Cosette made a private vow to treat the housekeeper to a fine new dress to make up for it.

Her father’s footsteps approached in the doorway. “All is well?”

Cosette glanced back at Eponine. The other girl’s eyes had closed, and her chest rose and fell peacefully. “She sleeps.” She turned to face her father. “Papa, these men tonight-“

“We must not speak of it,” he said tightly, and patted her head clumsily, like he had forgotten how. “Sleep, Cosette. We are safe now.”

“Safe from what?” she asked. But he was already gone.

* * *

 

When Eponine opened her eyes, she beheld a world she did not recognize, and so assumed that it must be Heaven. She recalled, dimly, the events of the previous night- how her father had attempted robbery upon the old man’s house, how she had roused him with a scream, how he had threatened to make her pay for her cheek. She remembered also her arrival in the Lark’s garden, the warm bath, and being embraced by a soft bed. That must have been her passage to the afterlife, she decided: she had been bathed and cared for at the heavenly gates, and out of some misguided pity on God’s part, she had been received into His arms. This was Heaven, and she could rest.

The illusion was disrupted by a soft noise at her side, and the smell of warm porridge wafting towards her. She opened her eyes. She was in the same bed as she had been the previous night, and the Lark was sitting at her bedside, holding a steaming bowl. Her hair was braided, as it had been the previous night, with a pale lavender ribbon threaded through the golden strands, but her clothes were different- a white dress patterned with lavender flowers to match the ribbon. Did angels change clothes in Heaven? When she was small, Eponine had imagined that they wore nothing but white robes, but perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps in Heaven, there was an abundance of beautiful clothes and the angels could wear what they liked. She would like a Heaven like that, where she could have a fine silk dress. Perhaps green silk? She liked green.

“Your breakfast, Mademoiselle Eponine,” the Lark said, and set the bowl down on the table beside the bed. Eponine frowned, wiping a hand across her sleep-grimed eyes. “Must I eat?”

The Lark looked surprised. “Are you not hungry?”

She was, now that the Lark brought it up. That was a surprise. “I thought I mightn’t have t’ eat, since I’m dead. The dead don’t need victuals, do they?”

“Oh, Eponine!” The Lark sat down on the edge of the bed, hands fluttering anxiously. “You aren’t dead at all. You’re at my papa’s house at the Rue Plumet. Don’t you remember? You were out in the cold and we brought you in. Were you hit so hard you forgot?" Her hands flew to her mouth. "We must call a doctor, to make sure you are well."

"I don't need a doctor," Eponine grunted, lifting herself up on her elbows. So she was still alive after all? The news was not entirely welcome. Death had been a blessed relief, while it had lasted; there was nowhere to go and nothing to do when you were dead. Now she had returned to the messy business of being alive, and she must needs think of what to do next, where to go and how to get there. Her head was beginning to ache again. Death, she decided, had been a much more agreeable state of affairs.

Still, now that she was alive, she was hungry. "Might I have that porridge, please?"

Cosette, who had not lowered her hands from her mouth all the while Eponine had been contemplating death, took the bowl from the table and put it into Eponine's hands. "Here you go. Our cook made it- she's very good at porridge. It has cinnamon in it."

The porridge's cinnamon contents, or lack thereof, was very little concern to Eponine; all that concerned her was filling her stomach. Still, when she dug into the bowl with the spoon that had been provided, she found that the Lark had not been incorrect; it did taste wonderful. She occupied herself with eating for the next several minutes, and it was only when she had scraped the bowl clean that she looked up again. Cosette took the bowl from her with a smile, and Eponine felt something strange and unfamiliar uncurl in the depths of her stomach.

"Thank you," she said gruffly. The words sounded odd and rough on her tongue.

"You're welcome," the Lark said, smiling. There was still a slight furrow between her eyes. "If you don't remember what happened last night, you must not know who I am. I'm called Cosette Fauche-"

"I know who you are," Eponine said. The Lark looked surprised. "Marius's Cosette. But don't you remember me?"

The Lark- Cosette- frowned prettily. "Remember you? But we've only just met."

"You don't, then." Eponine laughed harshly. "How angry you'll be when you find out the truth! You'll have me back out on the street, I s'ppose. Not that I deserve much less."

"You don't deserve anything of the sort," Cosette said firmly. She took both of Eponine's hands in hers'. Her grip was stronger than Eponine had anticipated. "But if you know me, won't you tell me? I've- there are so many things I've forgotten."

"Forgetting's good," Eponine said glumly. But Cosette still held tightly to her hands, and stared deeply at her, and she relented. "You don't recall the inn at Montfermeil? You were called the Lark then, though you never sang. We were of an age, but my mother wouldn't have us playing together, and we treated you like a dog. My mother was-"

"Mme. Thenardier." Cosette let go of her hands. In her eyes, Eponine saw something she finally recognized- a flash of that terror that had so often occupied Cosette's face when they were children together. "You're- you're Eponine, of course. And your sister, Azelma- and the little boy-" Her face contorted, as if keeping back tears.

"Gavroche," Eponine said. "Don't know where he is now. He comes and goes." Now it's coming, she thought. Now was the moment when Cosette would stand, raise a hand to slap her, and order her out of the house. She'd be out on the street once again, and there'd be no more hot porridge and linen nightgowns for her. She wasn't sorry. Better to do it now than let her discover the truth later. Still, there was something in Cosette's shattered-porcelain face that gave her a fleeting sense of regret. She hadn't thought she'd take it so hard.

"And the doll," Cosette muttered, dazed. "Papa gave me that doll- and I lost it, when we left. He told me your mother and father were coming for me. I hadn't thought it it in years- but-" She stood, a convulsive, jerky movement. "Excuse me a moment. I must attend to something-" And she fled the room. The empty bowl of porridge was left sitting beside the bed.

* * *

 

Out in the hall, Cosette pressed both hands to her breast, trying to slow the desperate beating of her heart.  _Eponine Thenardier_. She ought to have guessed- how many girls were there, of an age with her, who were called Eponine? But she'd all but banished the Thenardiers from her mind in the long years since leaving Montfermeil, and with them, their children. And even if she had remembered, how could she connect this skinny, dirty creature to the pampered child she had known? How the wheel had turned! If she had been of a mind to imagine the future when she was small, she would have pictured Eponine as a fine lady- as herself, she supposed, and herself as Eponine. What trick of fortune had reversed their fates? Only her father's intervention. 

Her father! Did he know? He must not; he had never spoken to Eponine when he had come to collect her from the Thenardiers. Or had he? She didn't know. She couldn't remember. She clutched her hands to her head. But Papa knew all about the Thenardiers and never told her! He must have thought it best, to banish such terrible memories from her mind. But she had asked and he'd refused to tell her! Was this what he had been hiding from her all this time? Was this why he wished to leave? Had he spotted Eponine in the garden, realized who she was, and thought to flee to keep the secret still? Well, there was no need for that anymore. Now she knew all about the Thenardiers, and Papa no longer needed to spirit her away to make sure she was safe and unknowing. She must tell him immediately.

Papa had been sitting in the garden when she passed by on her way to Eponine that morning, so she hurried towards the back door. Sure enough, there he sat, contemplating the roses that climbed the walls. She saw him shift slightly at her approach, but he did not turn around, and he did not speak. He rarely did; the task of beginning conversations usually fell to her. And what a conversation she had to begin now!

"Papa," she said, approaching him. "The girl from the garden is awake now." She came around to the front of the bench, and knelt at her father's feet. "We spoke when I brought her breakfast."

Her father's eyes met hers'. He looks so tired, she thought; tired and old. How had she not spotted it before? Keeping such a secrets must have worn on him considerably. Now she was here to lift his burden. He said nothing, but indicated with his hand that she could continue speaking.

"She says her name is Eponine Thenardier, Papa." Cosette paused, trembling. "Do you remember the Thenardiers? Surely you must. You came at Christmas and brought me away from them." Her voice was trembling now, too. "Papa, why would you not tell me? I asked and asked and you knew all this time! I remember it now, Papa. Why did you wish me to forget?”

She had delivered her speech looking at her lap, wringing her hands over and over. When she looked up, her father was looking back at her, and his eyes were full of tears. He reached out and gently took one of her hands between his two large ones; it all but disappeared between his palms.

“My dear child,” he said, voice thick. “I have tried to do as best by you as I could- as your mother would have wished. I fear I may have done wrong.”

“You have never!” Cosette clutched tightly at his hand. “But Papa, why would you not tell me the truth of things? I am well enough to know it. And how I’ve longed to know! Will you tell me now, since I remember the Thenardiers? Please, Papa; I have wanted to hear it for so long.”

Her father gave a long, gusty sigh, and Cosette feared she had pushed too hard. Perhaps he wouldn’t tell her after all. But he released her hand and smiled down at her sadly. “It seems you are more of an age than I thought- I who supposed you a child for so long! Come inside, Cosette, and I will tell you this story. It will take a long time, I fear.”

“I have as much time as need be,” Cosette said, standing. Her heart was leaping in her chest. How long she had waited for this moment! And how suddenly her wishes were to be granted! If she had known that the appearance of Eponine Thenardier would bring such a change to her life, she would have prayed daily to see the other girl over her garden gate.

* * *

 

Eponine expected Cosette or the old man to burst in at any moment to order her out, but they did not come. She did not mind terribly; since she knew her time in this soft bed was to be short, why hasten its end? While she waited, she picked at the coverlet and examined her nightgown. It had a ribbon threaded through the yoke. What a silly idea, putting a ribbon on a nightgown that none but the wearer would ever see! It was the sort of fancy only a wealthy woman would indulge in. Had she worn ribboned nightgowns when she was small? She did not remember any, but that did not mean she had not; it seemed like the sort of thing that would fit amidst those childhood memories. Perhaps her ribbons had been blue. Or pink; her mother had been fond of pink, even though it made her look sallow.

When she tired of sitting in bed, she got up and padded across the floor to examine Cosette’s desk. There was a sheet of blotting paper sitting on it, and a pen and inkpot, and a cunning bronze cat that seemed to serve no purpose but decoration. Bored with the desk, she turned to the wardrobe, which contained what seemed to Eponine to be a multitude of dresses-more dresses than any one woman needed, surely! She would smuggle one out of the house with her, if she could only conceal layers of lace and taffeta and linen under her own skirts. She could see no way towards it, however. How much simpler life would be, she thought, if she had a proper dress!

The door opened and closed and Eponine jumped like a scalded cat. Expecting the old man, she turned to look, but saw only Cosette standing there, hands folded in front of her, expression carefully blank.

“Forgive me,” she said, “for leaving you here for so long. My father and I were having a conversation that took longer than I anticipated.” She moved over to the bed and smoothed the covers into place. “Would you like to pick out a dress to wear? I’m sure you don’t wish to wear that nightgown all day.”

Eponine watched her warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Cosette did not make a move to speak again; she only smoothed the bedcovers again and again, as if trying to quiet something within her. “Well if there’s one among them you don’t want anymore, I’ll take it and be on my way and not trouble you any longer.”

“Be on your way?” Cosette looked up, confused. “Oh, no mademoiselle- I only meant, you could select a dress to wear, if you wished it. You needn’t leave. We’ve food and clothes and rooms enough for three.”

Eponine fidgeted, biting her lip and running her fingers over the prettiest dress- a pale yellow affair patterned with red roses. She could wear it, if she stayed. But what possible motive could Cosette have for letting her? Was it an attempt to keep her from Marius? Surely not; a lady as fine as Cosette would never see a street-filthy gamine as a rival. Truly, she could not hope to rival Cosette in any case. But if not that, then what?

“What d’you want from me?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “I’ve got nothing to give you, and you’ve got no reason to keep me here. You must hate me; send me packing, then.”

“Hate you? Cosette sounded surprised- no, dazed. “I don’t- Papa taught me not to hate things.” She lowered herself onto the bed. “Or people. I don’t hate people. Neither does he.” Her eyes looked glazed and distant. “I know why now. Did my mother hate, I wonder? Did-“ She broke off and fixed Eponine with her gaze again. “I don’t hate you,” she said firmly. “And you needn’t leave if you don’t want to. Papa says the streets are dangerous today.”

Of course; Lamarque’s death. In all that had happened, Eponine had forgotten it entirely. The students had been plotting their insurrection for the day of his funeral, and it was scarcely days away now. Marius would be there, wouldn’t he? The foolish boy still wanted to die for love and country. He’d die for neither, of course. She’d meant to be there, and instead here she was wasting her time contemplating dresses. What had come over her?

“I must leave,” she said, and turned towards the door. “You’ve been kind, Mademoiselle, but I don’t belong here. I ought to be gone and not trouble you any longer.”

Cosette’s brow creased. “Where do you belong, if not here?”

Eponine paused. The correct answer was, of course, dead on the streets; but she could hardly tell Cosette so and expect her to understand. Certainly she no longer belonged with her mother and father, if she ever had. And she did not belong with Marius- alive- much as she might wish. Perhaps she did not belong anywhere! What a queer thing to think of.

“Eponine,” Cosette had stood again, hands clasped together at her waist. She spoke with no tremble in her voice. “I do not know what your life has been since we last met- I would say that I can imagine, but in truth, I do not think I can. Perhaps you may tell me someday, if you wish. But if you will forgive my forwardness, I think you did not find your way here by accident. I have been told God works in mysterious ways- perhaps He sent you here because He knew it was where you were meant to be, at least for now.” She held out her hand. “Will you allow me this?”

Eponine looked at the proffered hand for a long moment. It was scrubbed clean and pink-skinned, but the nails were short and blunt- like they had been chewed on. Cosette’s hands bore no rings, and her wrists bore no bracelets; her only adornment was the lace cuffs at the ends of her sleeves. It was a practical look.

Eponine was a practical girl.

She took Cosette’s hand clumsily, aware that her skin was rough and harsh by comparison. “Mam’selle, I don’t understand your fancy talk about God- if He’s watching the likes of me at all. But you’ve been kind to me, and I’m- grateful- for that.” Her smile probably looks like a grimace, but she offers it anyway. “I’ll stay for however long you want me.”

Cosette squeezed her hand, and Eponine felt warm.

 

* * *

 

 

She had not been at all sure what to expect from life at the Fauchelevent household. it had been a long time since Eponine had lived in what might be called a proper household, and the routines of a middle-class family were quite foreign to her. As it happened, they were also quite foreign to Cosette and her father, and so her confusion did not last long. The conventions of polite society were alien to the little house on Rue Plumet, though the housekeeper-Toussaint, who had been quite surprised to find that Cosette and the old man had adopted a gamine in her absence- fussed over the lack of propriety. During the day, the old man sat in his study and read books, and would sometimes come out and sit in the garden if coaxed by Cosette. Cosette herself would spend her time planting, watering, and digging in the earth, and soon convinced Eponine to join her. Eponine had little interest or inclination to gardening- perhaps she had once, but she doubted it- but Cosette suggested it so prettily that Eponine could not find it in her heart to say no. The roses pricked, and some of the weeds itched, but she paid that little mind- she had felt far worse. Lunch would be eaten in the garden, on a little picnic blanket (they ate indoors during the winter, Cosette explained, but wished to take part in the good weather while it lasted) and ate supper indoors at the table before retiring for the night.

Eponine slept in Cosette’s bed, with the other girl by her side. The bed itself felt strange- it was still too soft, too comfortable- but the experience of sleeping curled next to another body was hardly foreign to her. In the depths of winter, she had often huddled close to others for warmth, in lieu of nightclothes or blankets. Of course, now that it was June and the weather was warm, they did not need each other for warmth, and they would often toss the bedclothes off and sleep in their nightclothes. In those hours, it was difficult sometimes for Eponine to avoid looking at her bedfellow, examining who Cosette was and what she had become. Certainly there was no hint of the lost Lark about her- years of eating well and being cared for had ripened Cosette into healthy womanhood, and her features bore the stamp of it. She was round in some places, with the lingering plumpness of childhood, and her chin was sweetly pointed. Her nightgown sometimes rode up around her hips, giving Eponine a look at her bare thighs, though she knew she ought to avert her eyes. Likewise, her neckline tended to slide down (Cosette tossed and turned frequently in her sleep) and would expose her breasts to the night air. They were round and rosy, and begged to be touched, but Eponine kept her hands firmly to herself. She may have been elevated by Cosette and the old man, but some things were still too fine for her to touch.

Still- it was hard not to look.

If Cosette suspected her thoughts- or, heaven forfend, shared them- she gave no sign of it, and was as kind and cheerful as she had always been. Their lives continued on in this way, until one afternoon when they were tending the garden. Monsieur Fauchelevent was not with them- he had begged their pardon, explaining that his head ached and he could not bear the bright light- and so they were alone. It was thus when they heard the first distant boom of the cannon.

Cosette started and dropped her trowel. Eponine did not start, but she did glance up sharply. The sky above them was blue and clear, with no hint of an oncoming storm. But the sound they had heard would not be denied- especially when it came again. A deep rumbling, and then the climax- a boom like thunder, but deeper and darker and far more inexorable. It was a sound that demanded attention.

“The barricades.” Eponine said. In her happiness of the past few weeks, she had all but forgotten the bourgeois boys and their plan. They, it appeared, had not- and neither had the National Guard, for Eponine could not imagine the students placing their smooth scholars’ hands on a cannon and pushing it into position. They didn’t have the strength.

“Marius.” Cosette said. She had gone very pale. Eponine looked at her.

“Marius,” she agreed.

Monsieur Fauchelevent came to the garden door, having apparently heard the noise. “Cosette, Eponine, it is not safe out of doors. Come inside.”

“The fighting won’t come near here,” Eponine said. “They planned to fight in the Rue Saint-Martin.” Marius was likely dead by now, she thought. And his friends, did they yet live? Almost certainly not. Foolish, headstrong children. At least she had planned to go to the barricades knowing she would die.

“Still,” Monsieur Fauchelevent said, gesturing to them, “you must come indoors.”

Cosette was pale and looked near tears. “Papa, the revolutionaries-”

“They’re long gone now.” Eponine said dully. “It’s only a matter of time before they bring the bodies out.”

Cosette fainted dead away.

 

* * *

 

 

Eponine and Toussaint tended to Cosette while Fauchelevent went out to fetch a doctor for her. Toussaint fussed about with smelling salts and wet cloths, banging around the kitchen making some sort of foul poultice, while Eponine simply crouched at Cosette’s bedside, holding the other girl’s limp hand in hers. She had thought herself better than this. She had thought she was improving- purged, perhaps, by the nearness and goodness of Cosette. She should have known better, that the demons in her would not be so easily dismissed. Cosette had been sheltering a serpent in her bosom.

When Cosette stirred, eyes fluttering, Eponine made to stand and move away, but Cosette only clutched her more tightly. “Oh Eponine, is it true? Are they dead?”

Eponine felt something dark and fetid running through her.

“I mustn’t upset you further,” she said, trying to disentangle her hand. “Your papa has gone to fetch a doctor. You must be quiet until he returns.”

“No.” Cosette’s face, though tear-stained, was determined; Eponine thought she saw something of a soldier in it. “I must know the truth, Eponine, and you are the only one who will give it to me. So tell me truly- do you think they are dead? Even Marius?”

Eponine sat down on the edge of the bed and took both of Cosette’s hands in her own. The other girl was usually so confident; now her hands trembled. “If not now, then surely soon. They were unprepared and overconfident. Even if we made our ways to the barricades and found them alive, they would be taken to the Sainte-Pélagie immediately. They have signed their death warrants.”

Cosette trembled all over. “Marius . . .”

“There is something more I must tell you,” Eponine said. She spoke slowly, deliberately. She knew she must choose each word individually, and push them from her tongue, or else she would never be able to speak. “When Marius told me of his plans to go to the barricades, I- encouraged him. I wished to go with him, and die there. I’m selfish; I always have been. I wished he’d care for me, but if he wouldn’t, I thought I could at least have him in death. It’s only because you took me in that night that I didn’t go. I would have robbed you of your lover; now it seems he’s taken himself away without my help.” She released Cosette’s hands. “So you see, I should have left your home long ago. Probably the morning I told you who I was. I’ve been happy with you, but I don’t deserve it any longer. I’ll go.” She felt that they had had this conversation before, but it seemed in another life. Cosette had seemed near tears then, too. The sooner she was gone, the sooner her tears could dry.

“No!” Cosette seized both of her hands tightly, more tightly than Eponine had expected. She gasped. “You must not leave me. Not now.”

Eponine was too stunned to pull away. “But I’ve told you the truth now. You must not want me.”

Cosette pushed herself up on the pillows. Her eyes were blazing. “If I did not want you, do you not think I would have sent you away before? I did not. I will not. Why do you presume I don’t know my own mind? You are here because I wish you to be.”

“I am here because of Marius!” Eponine cried. “I am here because I followed him and lay down before your door to die. You think _I_ presume? You presume I wish to stay.”

Cosette pressed her mouth into a hard line. “You haven’t said you do not. Will you say it now? Say you wish to leave and I will let you go.”

“I-”

But Eponine found she could not say it. Her words had dried up. She _ought_ to leave; but the pull of her desire held her in place. And she was weak in the face of her desire. Living too long in poverty had robbed her of her will; she could not do what she knew was right, even when her conscience compelled her to do so. Her conscience! What a joke it was!

Cosette still stared at her mutinously, eyes tear-filled, lips trembling. She looked frightened, and petulant, and so very beautiful. An angel in ribbons and lace. Eponine did not have the words for what she felt- words were the dominion of the rich, people who dressed their desires in fancy words to make them seem less obscene. Eponine had no such words. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed Cosette’s mouth. It was a dry, chaste sort of kiss, different from what she had known before- but it was a kiss with Cosette, and so possessed of infinite fire.

She pulled away and stared at Cosette. The other girl stared back, tears trembling on her eyelashes, apparently uncertain of how to respond. “There’s your answer, mademoiselle,” she said defiantly.

What Cosette may have said in response just then was lost, for the house’s front door opened and they sprang apart. Fauchelevent hurried into the room, followed by a man in a fine dark coat. “Oh, you have woken; that’s good, the doctor tells me. Lie still and let him care for you . . .”

As Fauchelevent and the doctor fussed, Eponine slipped silently out the door.

* * *

 

Cosette would recover from her faint, she knew; she was made of stronger stuff than Fauchelevent supposed. She could hardly blame him for his concern, however. To the casual observer, Cosette appeared a thing of porcelain and silk, to be jealously safeguarded from thieves. It was an easy thing for a father to miss, when his daughter grew strong. Eponine’s own father had, though more through neglect than wilful blindness. Fauchelevent’s true mistake, she thought, had been in supposing that Cosette would be content to be so long alone. Nobody ever was, not even with such a kind father to guide them through life.

Cosette would have had a good life with Marius. He was kind and courteous, and even if he was terribly bourgeois, Eponine could see that he would have treated his wife like gold. They would have been a fine pair, strolling up and down the boulevard in the latest fashions with a child or two scampering at their heels. He could have given her all of that, had he chosen. But instead he had chosen honourable death. As if there was such a thing. A week earlier, Eponine would have chosen death as well; but how could anyone know Cosette and choose anything but her?

She did not wish to return to the room they had shared, where Cosette was still resting, so she stayed in the garden instead. The air cooled considerably as the sun went down, but Eponine hardly noticed; she had a fine dress and a shawl now. She knew she must look ridiculous, crouching in the garden while wearing such finery, but it came naturally to her. There was comfort in that. Besides, she made sure to tuck her skirts safely out of the way of the upturned soil. She wasn’t sure why she did it, as she had no idea of where she would go when she inevitably left the garden- if she would wander the streets again or simply run away and jump in the river. Neither option left her with much need of a clean dress. But she kept her skirts safe, because-

Well, because she had a vague sort of idea that Cosette might be upset if they were dirtied. What a silly thing to worry about. As if she hadn’t already upset Cosette a thousand times over; what was a dirty dress, compared to that?

A shadow appeared in the doorway and Eponine tensed, but it was only Monsieur Fauchelevent. He stepped out into the garden and let out a long sigh, then scraped a match against the wall and lifted it to the lantern that hung from the wall. There was a long moment of silence as he inhaled; Eponine watched, waiting to see what he would do.

“My daughter would like to speak with you,” Fauchelevent said at last. Eponine laughed, a dry, bitter sound. “Does she really?”

“So she says,” Fauchelevent replied mildly. His mildness angered her. He ought to be shouting. How could he be so calm?

“And tell me, M’sieur,” she said, “do you wish me to speak to her? Or would you rather I was gone?”

Monsieur Fauchelevent looked at her, and Eponine shivered. There was no anger in his look, nor disappointment, but there was an aspect to him that made her feel as though he could see clear through to her soul. She didn’t like feeling so open to view; there were parts of her that ought not to be seen.

“I have no opinion on the matter.” he said. Eponine was preparing to shout or fly at him or do something desperate- something that would shake a reaction from this damnably calm man and his damnably calm daughter who refused to rail at her in the way she deserved- when he surprised her by speaking again.

“My daughter spoke to me of your past,” he said. “I thought I saw something in your face when you first came- and when I visited your father at the Gorbeau house. Your father is more familiar to me, and a cause of more dread; but you have not sinned against me, child. Why do you fear us so?”

“I don’t _fear_ ,” Eponine said. There was something of the streets left in her that bristled at the idea of her fearing this old man.

“You fear something; that much is clear. You wish to flee. I will not stop you; it isn’t my place. But I think my daughter would be grieved to see you go.” He paused. “You may be surprised to hear it, but I see something of myself in you. I was young, once, and angry. Afraid. It was an old man who saved me. He is long dead now, but I have often felt that I owe him a debt- a continuance, so to speak, of his work.”

“So I’m to be your act of charity?” Eponine’s mouth twisted, a parody of a smile. “I think you’ll find I’m not worth what you pay for me, M’sieur.”

“Charity implies that there is nothing to be paid in return,” Fauchelevent said. “That, I think, is not the case. You speak as if you have nothing to offer. You have no money, this is true; but the things the Bishop offered me could not have been weighed in coins. You are yourself; is that not something? And you have made me daughter happy in these past few days. That is a thing I could not put a price on.”

Eponine huffed. “Well she’s not happy now, is she?”

“She is not.” Fauchelevent made a movement that might have been a shrug. “I think she might be, however, if you went in and spoke to her. As I said, there is value in you yet.” And with that, he turned and went inside.

Eponine’s skin prickled; she felt as though she was burning. Her eyes, especially, felt heavy and aching. The old man had fired arrows into her; some of them had hit their mark. How could she stagger out into the street, wounded as she was? She’d been spoiled for ever calling herself independent again. What a terrible thing it was to love!

She could see no other avenue, so she went indoors. The lamps were all lit, and they made the walls glow warm and yellow. Candles in her own rooms always seemed dim and ugly; perhaps it was the lamp-glass that made them seem so friendly. Or, she decided, it was due to the character of those who lit them. The old man must have done it before he came out to light the lantern. Well, she was not the old man; but she could do her best, for Cosette’s sake. It was what he wanted her to do, she supposed.

Cosette’s bedroom door was closed, but not locked. When she pushed it open, the other girl was sitting up in bed. She was wearing her nightgown with the ribbon through the yoke, and in deference to the warm weather, had turned the bedclothes down to her knees. When Eponine entered, she reached down in alarm to pull them up before relaxing. “Oh! I thought you were the doctor.”

“I’m no doctor,” Eponine said, because she could think of nothing else to say. She stood in place and stared at Cosette in silence, waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, Eponine prompted her. “Your father said you wanted to speak to me.”

Cosette held out a hand and Eponine went automatically to take it. “I only wished to make sure you hadn’t left,” Cosette said gently. “You disappeared and I didn’t know where you were.”

Eponine, having sat down on the bed, shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I thought I should. I’d only be in the way.”

“I would have liked you to stay,” Cosette said softly. “You have been a very great comfort to me.”

There was nothing Eponine could think of to say in response, so she said nothing. They sat in silence for several moments, until Cosette said “Do you know that you are very pretty?”

Eponine laughed dryly. “You’re very much mistaken, Mademoiselle.”

“Cosette,” she said firmly. “You must call me Cosette.” Eponine’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “And you are pretty- no, you’re beautiful. Did you really not know?”

“I haven’t been pretty for a long time,” Eponine said. “and beautiful, never. You are terribly mistaken, Cosette. You and your father both.”

Cosette smiled. “Papa called you beautiful?”

“He called me valuable,” Eponine corrected her. “But he’s wrong. You’re kind, both of you- kinder than I know how to be. But you’re so terribly mistaken. You think there’s worth in everyone, just because there’s worth in you. But you and him, you’re special cases. The rest of us just muddle along without our souls and hope something good comes our way.”

“Oh, Eponine.” And Cosette did something that Eponine had not thought to expect. She leaned forward and kissed Eponine’s forehead. “Is it so hard to believe that I care for you? That you have comforted me and made me laugh and been kind to me in these past days, and that I wish to keep you by my side because of it? You speak as if I cared for an abstract instead of a flesh and blood girl. I care for all people because it is my duty. I care for you because your presence warms my heart.”

Eponine looked down, blushing. “You use such fancy words.”

“I use them because I mean them,” Cosette said. She brought a hand up to stroke Eponine’s face, and Eponine felt her breath catch. “I know very little of love- this sort of love, that is. My papa loves me, and I know my mother did too. But this- this love that creates and builds and nourishes- this I know very little of. So I use fancy words, like the ones I’ve read in novels, because I don’t know what other words to use. But I know what they mean; I know it because I feel them.” And she smiled.

Eponine swallowed. Her throat was very tight. “Should you not use such words for Marius? He- he is your lover, after all.”

Cosette turned red and looked down at her lap. With her free hand- the one that was not holding Eponine’s- she picked at the skirt of her nightgown. “He is my lover,” she said slowly, “and yet he is not- I think. We love people in different ways, do we not? I loved- love- Marius because he is sweet and kind and would be my husband one day. But-“ And her face reddened.

“Tell me,” Eponine said. Her heart beat so quickly, she could feel it in her ears.

“But,” Cosette said softly. “There is love in security and there is love that is felt no matter the circumstances- love without expectation of fulfillment, and without hope of resolution. Love that is felt in spite of all these obstacles. I have read of the old days, when knights pledged themselves to fine women they could not wed. I could not be a knight, because I do not have their forbearance. I wish to act on my love no matter what the consequences may be. I am not one of those on the barricades, but I will act upon my conscience, and my conscience says I must love.”

And she leaned forward to kiss Eponine.

It was a warmer kiss than what they had experienced before, and less chaste- not by much, but Eponine could feel Cosette’s lips flex against hers’, and the sensation made her shiver. She grasped the back of Cosette’s neck and used it to leverage herself against the other girl’s front. Cosette jerked and gasped against her mouth, and Eponine let go and leaned back.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked. Cosette’s mouth was very wet and red, and her eyes were wide.

“You have not,” Cosette said. “It is only- I have not felt such things before, with another person. I was surprised.” She paused. “And I think we ought to close and lock the door before we go any further.”

Eponine did not need telling twice. She scrambled off the bed and turned the key in the lock before returning to her position before Cosette. She could be on her knees before this girl, she thought, and it would be entirely right. “What- what do you wish me to do?”

“I don’t know.” Cosette bit her lip. “As I said, I have not felt such things. I do not know what the proper thing is. Have you? Done these things?”

“I haven’t,” Eponine said, because it was true. Money made against a wall or in a bed did not compare to this. “I have seen it done, but I do not think you would enjoy it like that. Perhaps we ought to make things up as we go?”

“I would like that,” Cosette said, leaning forward and winding her arms around Eponine’s neck. “What do you think we should do first, Eponine?”

“I would like to kiss you again,” Eponine said. And she did.

The kiss deepened. Cosette wiggled against Eponine, fastening her hands at the base of the other girl’s neck and tangling her fingers in her hair. She smelled of rosewater. On impulse, Eponine opened her mouth slightly, and Cosette took the opportunity to slip her tongue inside, squeaking softly in delight. Eponine’s hands went to the neckline of Cosette’s nightgown and tugged, revealing the soft swell of her breasts. Eponine took one in her hand, and ran the pad of her thumb over the nipple. Cosette gasped into her mouth. “Oh! Do it again.”

Eponine did, rubbing for emphasis. Cosette pushed herself forward, putting a leg on either side of Eponine’s lap and surging closer. She scrabbled for the lacing on Eponine’s dress, and once she had pulled it loose, she plunged her hands inside, touching every inch of her skin. She pulled the bodice, hard, until it was pooled around Eponine’s waist, and then bent to take one of Eponine’s nipples into her mouth. Eponine cried out, arching her back, and thrusting her breasts closer to Cosette’s face, hoping only that she would continue doing what she was doing. Her hands were empty, so she brought them up to tangle in Cosette’s hair, guiding her mouth to lap around the nipple and lay kisses on the surrounding breast.

Cosette let go and leaned back, wide-eyed. “I think we ought to undress now.”

Eponine couldn’t agree more, but her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she pulled at the remains of her bodice and skirt. Cosette, burdened only with a nightgown, made much quicker work of her clothes, and soon knelt in front of Eponine in all her naked glory. Her skin glowed warm and pink, her nipples flushed red, and her sex protected only by a thatch of golden curls. Eponine felt sallow next to her, and small- almost too much so to finish undressing. But when she finally pulled herself free of the dress, Cosette’s eyes on her made her feel as if she had unveiled a statue of priceless marble.

“I would,” Cosette said, breathing hard, “like very much to touch you-” And then she pounced forward, sliding both hands down Eponine’s body and into her lap. When Cosette’s fingers slid against her wetness, Eponine whined and bucked against them; Cosette took the hint and slid them further in, rubbing at Eponine until she found a spot that made her cry out and seize both of Cosette’s shoulders. Cosette took the opportunity to slide a thumb through Eponine’s folds, finding the tiny nub of skin that made Eponine bite down hard on her tongue to keep from shouting. When she raised her hips off the bed, Cosette slid several fingers into her fully, and Eponine went wild writhing on top of them and crying out unintelligible words until she felt something inside her clench and release and she fell back with a long, final gasp.

Cosette looked at her from under her eyelashes, breathing heavily. Her skin was still flushed pink all over, with two bright red spots standing out on her cheeks. Eponine smiled slowly. “Would you like for me to touch you again, mademoiselle?”

Cosette smiled, a wicked smile that Eponine would not have thought to see on such an innocent face. She leaned backwards until she was spread across the bedcovers, a feast resplendent.  “I don’t know. Would you like to?”

For a moment, Eponine could not answer; her mouth had gone dry. “I would,” she whispered at last, and leaned forward to kiss her way up Cosette’s thigh. The other girl squirmed against her until Eponine put an arm across her hips to hold her still, and continued her path up the leg. Cosette whined and reached down to pull at Eponine’s hair, but Eponine- who shivered in delight at the slight sting- kept at her pace until she reached the join of Cosette’s legs. She lingered there for several long moments, kissing and licking around her goal until she could stand the tension no longer, and she dragged her tongue up Cosette’s slit. Cosette gasped, thighs clenching around Eponine’s head, and Eponine kept up the steady pressure with her tongue, flicking up with the tip at each stroke. The noises Cosette was making, whimpers and gasps, were nearly enough to make her want to climb atop the other girl again, but she was too intent on her task to be distracted. She could tell by the trembling in Cosette’s thighs and the catch in her breath that she was close, and so she increased her speed until Cosette finally gasped, clenched all over, and then went limp.

Licking her lips, Eponine crawled up to lie next to Cosette on the pillow, feeling suddenly shy. She had not been in this position before, for such encounters in her experience usually ended in the exchange of coin and the parting of ways. That was not the case here; as such, she had very little idea of what to expect. As usual, it was Cosette who took the lead, slipping a comfortable arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. “One wonders why women are so content to marry men,” she said, “if this alternative is presented to them.”

Eponine wriggled a little, drawing the sheets up to their waists. “If women all married each other, what would men have left for them?”

Cosette appeared to consider the question. “Each other?”

Eponine giggled and pressed her face to Cosette’s shoulder. “You do not speak as a respectable lady ought, you know.”

“After this, I think I am not a respectable lady,” Cosette said with a shrug and a smile. Then she yawned. “I am also tired. Will you sleep with me, mademoiselle?”

“I believe I just did.” Eponine yawned also. “But I accept your offer anyway.” She leaned across Cosette and blew the candle out. “Good night, Cosette.”

“Good night.” 

* * *

 

The next morning, Fauchelevent went out, not telling Cosette or Eponine where he was going. They rose near noon, after spending the first half of the day occupied in bed, and went out to the garden again. They spoke very little. They did not need to say more.

Fauchelevent returned as the light waned. His clothes were almost unrecognizable; he looked as though he had been dragged through mud. He also looked very tired. He said nothing to either girl, but went into his rooms and shut the door behind him while they exchanged looks of bafflement. After what seemed like a long time, he emerged.

“The insurgence is over,” he said. Eponine reached out to take Cosette’s hand. “Almost all of the students on the barricades have fallen. Those who did not have been taken to hospital, but the man I spoke to-” here he winced- “-said that none looked as though they would survive the night. If they do, they will be tried for treason.”

Cosette clenched her free hand in her dress, flexing her fingers several times before she responded. “Thank you, Papa.” she said. Then she stood and left the room.

Eponine followed her out into the hallway. Cosette turned to look at her. “Do you think Marius is one of the survivors?” she asked.

Cosette shook her head slowly. “Even if he is, we will not see him again. All the same, I will go to the hospital tomorrow to look. I owe him that much.”

“I will go with you,” Eponine said.

Cosette smiled tremulously and took Eponine’s hand again. “He will be scarred, and we- we will be what we are. Do you think the three of us will recognize each other?”

“We’ll see what we need to see,” said Eponine. 

* * *

 

Marius was not at the hospital. On their way out, Cosette spotted an old man sitting in the hallway, stoop-shouldered with grief. She bent to look him in the eye. “Have you lost someone, Monsieur?” she said kindly.

The old man shook his head. His face was lined and streaked with tears. “My child,” he moaned, “my child!” And he fell to weeping again.

As Cosette and Eponine looked on, uncertain of what to do next, Fauchelevent came to Cosette’s side and took her elbow. “Come,” he said gently, “we can do nothing more. There are hurts that cannot be soothed by human hands.”

Cosette watched the old man still, brow furrowed. “Surely we cannot just leave him here?”

“The hospital has a curate who will do what he can,” Fauchelevent said. “We do what we can to help the living; but there is no influence we can exert over those who have been touched by death. It is not our provenance.”

They continued on their way out of the hospital. At the end of the hallway, Cosette looked back. The curate arrived, as promise, and bent over the old man, saying something she could not hear. She felt the strangest sense of something passing by her- black wings rushing past, what might have been a shade of herself.

* * *

 

And so, very little changed. Yet very much changed- if one knew where to look.

The mademoiselles Fauchelevent- as they became known, for Eponine had very little attachment to being called either Thenardier or Jondrette- became well-known in their neighbourhood, strolling as they did along the boulevard. They dispensed charity, as the old man and his daughter had always been known to do, and were familiar faces at the hospital and the poorhouse. The second mademoiselle, the one who was shorter and darker than the first, has a quick tongue and knew how to converse with the occupants of the poorhouse in their own language, a fact which surprised the other fine ladies and the conversationalists in equal measures. Sometimes her companion would attempt to mimick her language; she rarely succeeded, but her efforts were cheered when she did. Sometimes they were accompanied by the old man, but as the years passed, he was more content to remain in his home, cherished by his daughter and her friend and pleased to have their company. If he had any questions about the nature of the relationship between the two women, he never asked. He had his daughter with him; he was happy.

Cosette kept at all the accomplishments she had cultivated before Eponine came into her life, and more. She taught Eponine all that the other woman wished to know about penmanship, art, and literature, and Eponine drank up her knowledge like a plant that had been dying for want of water. They cavorted about town, visiting museums and art galleries and glorying in the freedoms available to them. Serving as each other’s companion, they were suitably chaperoned and could go where they liked, and they used this ability to explore every corner of Paris. They were not fine enough society to attend balls or salons, but they did not feel the absence. They were young, and in love, and free. 

One night, as they were coming home from the hospital, Eponine spotted a shadow moving across the street. She stilled Cosette with a hand, holding a finger to her lips, and ventured forward to investigate. Soft living had not engendered a sense of caution in her; probably it never would.

The shadow did not move as she approached, and when the light fell across it, she discerned that it was a small child, no more than ten. Its hair was tucked up under a cap, and it wore threadbare trousers and an equally thin shirt. It could have been boy or girl. "Hello," Eponine said.

The child squinted at her. "What d'you want?"

"I live here," Eponine said, lapsing into the familiar rhythms of her tongue that she had grown up using. "Where're you headed? Home?"

"Don't got one," she child said, but it looked slightly less wary than it had before. They were speaking a common language, a shared experience. "You're fancy. You got money?"

"Not on me," Eponine said, "but I could find some for you. Do you have a name?"

The child looked uncertain for a long moment before Eponine's manner- or, more likely, the offer of money- softened its resolve. "Bernard. Like the dog."

Eponine glanced at Cosette, who had come to stand beside her. "Well, Monsieur Bernard-like-the-dog, will you come indoors with us to have a bite to eat? You look as if you haven't in some time."

"That I haven't," Bernard said grudgingly, coming forward so that the light fell on his face. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," Cosette said. "We'd only like to see you fed and warm."

He glanced at Eponine, seeking safety in familiarity- small as it was. "She serious?"

Eponine held a hand out to him. "I've found she often is." Bernard still looked unconvinced, so Eponine persisted. "You needn't stay for long if you don't want to. Only long enough to get a full belly and a full purse."

Bernard looked as if he was considering it for a moment. Then he stuck his thumbs through the loops of his pants. Eponine had looked like him once, she thought, in another life. "Lead the way, then."

She had lead and she had followed; but she had always been her primary concern. It felt right to be leading someone else for a change. Cosette stepped around her to open the gate to their little house, and Eponine gestured. "After you, monsieur."


End file.
